


The Guitar Case

by vanillafluffy



Category: The Three Investigators | Die drei ??? - Various Authors, The Trixie Belden Mysteries - Julie Campbell Tatham & Kathryn Kenny
Genre: F/M, Gen, Missing Persons, Mystery, Runaway, problem solving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 10:17:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17723297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: For the prompt "attending a musical performance".Trixie and Jupiter have decided to focus on solving problems, not just mysteries. They're asked to locate a missing boy from Rocky Beach who wants to break into the music business.





	The Guitar Case

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brumeier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumeier/gifts).



Somebody’s best friend’s girlfriend’s little brother has called Jupiter with the info they need. They have a line on Eddie Salazar! Trixie is frankly amazed--it’s only taken a few hours from the time they talked to the young runaway’s distraught grandmother.

“We used to call it a ghost-to-ghost hookup,” Jupe says, looking up the location on his phone. “It’s basically a phone tree, where I call three people, then they call three people, and so on.”

By now, Trixie knows that “we” when Jupiter says it like that means The Three Investigators, like when she says “we” she’s referring to the Bob-Whites of the Glen. “We” as applied to the two of them is still a tentative thing with no catchy appellation or business cards.

Eddie is fifteen, and has been missing for three days. His grandmother, who’s a good friend of Jupe’s Aunt Mathilda, is more than a little anxious about him. The police has taken a report, but he could be anywhere by now.

“All he took was that stupid guitar!” she kept saying when they talked to her. “Not even his toothbrush!”

Trixie and Jupe looked at each other. She had her doubts--nearby Los Angeles, his stated destination, is huge--finding one runaway amid all that sprawl seemed an impossible task. Jupe reassured Mrs. Salazar and confidently predicted that they’d have him home soon. He’d asked questions about who Eddie’s friends were and started making the calls that brought an answer.

“A guitar?” Trixie muses on their way from Rocky Beach to Eddie’s alleged whereabouts. “That doesn’t seem very practical. It’s big, bulky and noticeable.”

“But valuable,” Jupiter points out. “If he was absolutely desperate, he could pawn it--but he won’t.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“An internet map of the buildings surrounding Thalberg Plaza, where Eddie is supposedly playing--one of the buildings that borders it is the headquarters of Edensound Records. I surmise that he picked that place to get noticed, and for that, he needs his guitar.”

Thalberg Plaza faces a wide boulevard with palm trees marching down the median far into the distance. As promised, Edensound Records occupies a tall glass rectangle on one side, while the office building on the other side looks like a cheese grater with windows in Trixie’s opinion. 

An open area with a fountain separates the street from a row of boutiques. There are carts with vendors, from soft pretzels to sunglasses, and Trixie’s pulse quickens as she hears a guitar being played nearby.

“Relax,” says Jupe, catching her arm. “We don’t want to spook him. It’s not like we can drag him into the car and haul him back to Rocky Beach if he doesn’t want to go. They call that kidnapping, and it’s frowned upon. He doesn’t know us…I think the best thing to do it take it easy and talk to him.”

Patience isn’t one of Trixie’s strongest attributes. When it comes to tasks like organizing the bike shed at the salvage yard, she can divide her focus--half of it concentrates on separating different sized wheels while the rest contemplates the latest developments on _Fame and Fortune_ , the daytime drama Aunt Mathilda has gotten her hooked on. Patience with people who do dumb things like run off and leave their grandmothers afraid for their life is something else.

Trying to relax and actually being relaxed are two totally different things. Ordinarily, Trixie would enjoy the colorful atmosphere of the plaza--the vendors with bright umbrellas or awnings over their carts, the variety of people laughing, talking, browsing, the displays in the shop windows--but not today. She’s too concerned with finding Eddie Salazar.

The space staked out by the young runaway is in the shade. He’s got a small amp set up, and his guitar case is open before him, inviting donations. There are a few ones and some loose change in there and a sign of the times: a Starbucks card.

The melody Eddie is playing as they walk up sounds familiar to Trixie, although she can’t name the title off the top of her head. She and Jupe stand there listening. The only other patron at the moment is a man in a wheelchair, whose eyes are closed--but he isn’t asleep, because his fingers are tapping out the beat on his armrests. The kid has talent, Trixie has to admit.

Jupiter extracts his money clip out of his jeans pocket, dropping two singles into the open guitar case. Absently, Eddie mumbles “Thanks, man”, his concentration on the old Bon Jovi standard he’s playing. Trixie studies him. He’s only been gone a few days--he still looks fairly presentable--or at least no more disreputable than most boys his age…although he could use a haircut.

After they’ve been standing there for a few minutes, when Eddie’s finished “Dead or Alive’, he glances up. “Was there something you wanted to hear? I’ll play it if I know it.”

“Know any Simon and Garfunkel?” Jupe asks.

To Trixie’s surprise, he nods. She’d forgotten that “Sound of Silence” was around for ages before Disturbed covered it. Eddie’s interpretation leans more to that than the original, dark rippling chords ring out. He’s good, but not great, she thinks.

“Do you know ‘How Sweet the Peach’?” asks the man in the wheelchair when Eddie’s finished Jupe’s request.

Eddie thinks about it for a moment, fingers flexing above the frets before he begins to play. 

“I haven’t heard that in ages,” Jupe remarks to the man. “It was really big when I was in high school, but I don’t think the guy put anything else out.”

It’s only when Eddie begins to play that Trixie recognizes the tune. Jupe’s right--it’s been a long time since it’s had any airplay, but she remembers hearing it on the radio Brain and Mart had in their room. That was before the Wheelers had moved in, she remembers, because she associates it with wanting a bike of her own--she used to sneak in there to listen to the radio while the boys were out riding their bikes…. Eddie’s version isn’t quite as intricate as the original--still, for a spur-of-the-moment request, it’s pretty darn good.

“You’re not bad,” says the wheelchair-bound man as Eddie finishes with a flourish. “Keep at it; in a few years you might be able to make a career out of it.”

“I’m ready to make a career out of it right now,” Eddie responds with an upward glance at the Edensound building.

“You don’t want to do that.” The man shakes his head. “Stay in school. Graduate. Learn something else besides music--I’m not saying don’t pursue music, but have something to fall back on.”

Eddie wrinkles his nose. “You sound like my abuela,” he complains. “School ain’t the real world.”

“You got that right. The real world is a lot tougher. You make a mistake in school, you get a bad grade. Maybe you have to serve detention. Make a mistake in real life? You can wind up dead--or in a chair, like me. You’ve got a goal for your life and that’s great--but what you need is a plan--and a back-up plan. May I see your guitar?”

Reluctantly, Eddie handles him the instrument.

The man strums a few chords and adjusts the tuning pegs infinitesimally. ‘How Sweet the Peach’ rings out again, this time with the meticulous melody that Trixie remembers. It’s baroque, gorgeous-- Eddie’s rendition was a pale copy compared to this.

It’s more than just technical ability, Trixie realizes. This guy plays with a confidence Eddie doesn’t have yet. The tune rings out from the little amp, and people start to edge closer. 

Soon dollar bills are raining into the guitar case from the throng of curious onlookers. When ‘Peach’ is done, the musician segues into another melody, unfamiliar to her, but no less intricate. He follows that up with a spirited cover of ‘Classical Gas’, and by the time he’s done, there’s at least thirty dollars cushioning the bottom of the guitar case.

He hands the instrument back to Eddie with a cheerful, “Show’s over, folks!” and the crowd disperses. 

Eddie stares at him. “Who are you, man? That was awesome! How come you’re not making a zillion dollars selling records?”

“Been there, done that. My name is Milo DeSilva--”

Jupiter gasps. “It was you!” he blurts. “You’re the one who recorded ‘How Sweet the Peach’!”

“That’s right.” Milo glances at him. “Back when I was nineteen. I put out an album with my best friend on keyboards, toured for a while…then one night on the way back from a gig, we went off the road. He died, I wound up here, and these days I’m scraping by as an anonymous studio musician because that’s all I know how to do. Do yourself a favor, kid--diversify. You never know what life’s gonna throw at you.”

Trixie feels bad for Eddie. There’s a lost expression on his face--Milo has just showed him how far he has to go to be as good as he needs to be and now he’s being told that he should be ready to let go of his dream entirely. 

He’s a good kid, though. “Most of that is yours,” he says, indicating the windfall. “There was eleven dollars and seventy-five cents and a Starbucks card in there before you started….”

“Keep it. Buy yourself a bus ticket back to wherever you came from and get your butt back in school. Where are you from?”

Eddie shrugs. “Up the coast a ways.”

“Rocky Beach,” Jupiter interjects. “It isn’t that far.”

Trixie almost laughs as Eddie’s jaw drops. “Your grandmother is worried about you, Eddie” she tells him. He looks from one to the other of them, confused.

“How the hell did you find me?” Eddie stammers. “I didn’t tell her where I was going!”

“We never divulge our methods,” Jupe says with an air of mystery. “But we can give you a ride home.”

He’s thinking about running, she can tell from the way his eyes dart around the plaza, but he’d have to abandon the amp at the very least. After a moment, he sighs gustily and begins gathering up the loose cash. He offers it--all of it--to Milo. 

“I guess I don’t need bus fare…thanks for the show. You’re really good.”

Milo accepts it. “Much obliged. Kid--Eddie? Keep at it. You’ve got talent and you’ve got guts. Just remember, life doesn’t make any promises. Here’s my card--call me and let me how you’re doing. It never hurts to know somebody in the industry.”

“Thank you, Mr. DeSilva.”

Eddie is quiet on the drive home. When Jupe and Trixie stop for burgers, he thanks them politely for his meal, but he’s clearly lost in thought--which doesn’t stop him from devouring every bite that’s set in front of him.

“I guess Nana’s pissed, huh?” he says as they approach Rocky Beach.

“She’s been really worried,” Trixie tells him. “And she thinks you should’ve taken your tooth brush.”

He smiles faintly. “You think she’s gonna take my guitar away?”

“Maybe, at least until you get caught up on all the school you missed,” Jupe suggests. “Or you convince her you aren’t going to run away again.”

“I’m not.” He stares at the back of the front seat. “I was always looking over my shoulder thinking somebody was gonna rip me off or beat me up or something. And I hardly made any money playing-- that was the most I’ve had to eat since the night before I left, and I’m still hungry! No offense--” he says quickly. “I just missed a few meals.”

“You’re still growing,” Jupe points out. “I remember when I was your age--I’d still be eating!”

When they pull up to the Salazar residence, Eddie’s grandmother hurries out of the house, embracing him in the middle of the front yard and addressing him in rapid-fire Spanish.

Jupe waves and drives off. “He’ll be okay. She was saying how skinny he looks and she’s going to fix him some tacos while he’s taking a shower.”

“Well, we brought him home,” Trixie says thoughtfully, “and I guess we _did_ find him, but….”

“But what? That’s a win, Trixie.”

“I don’t know…we were going to be problem solvers. It doesn’t feel like we solved the problem.”

“We found him, and we gave him a ride home. Milo may be the one whose powers of persuasion influenced him, but if he hadn’t done that, if it was just us and him, Eddie might have absconded. He looked as if he was contemplating it. And if not for our fortuitous intervention, he might not have listened to Milo. He might have taken that money, gone out, had three or four cheeseburgers and said, ‘I’ll try again tomorrow’. This way, he’s safe at home, he’ll sleep in his own bed tonight and nothing bad is going to happen because we were in the right place at the right time.”

Trixie thinks about that. Jupe’s logic is hard to fault. “I guess you’re right,” she agrees as they roll homeward. “The important thing is, he’s home safe, and maybe someday, we’ll be able to say we knew him when.”

 

…

**Author's Note:**

> Set after "The Secret of the Weird White Wedding"...I actually started writing this last summer and it kind of languished. Surprise! Here it is!


End file.
